All this time I've known you
by OnlyLies
Summary: Cry is Cry. Pewdie is the same guy he's known all these years, with the thick Swedish accent and bizarre humour. They're both the same people, just matured just that bit more. So why does Cry find himself so drawn to his best friend? RPF. Rated T for bad language and possible romance scenes in later chapters.
1. Somewhat of an enigma

**Cry** is an enigma. To over a million subscribers that know him as 'Cry', or 'ChaoticMonki', they know very little. The sparse information they have is that he's a twenty five year old male who lives in Florida, goes by a pseudonym on the Internet and posts videos of himself playing video games. Some say it's for his own entertainment, others argue it's for the thousands who watch him. It certainly puts him in a better light; the selfless man who only ever does things for others' benefit. It may be a partial truth.

Cry himself is not too sure why he does it. On some occasions it's out of boredom, the virtual world certainly holds more interest than reality. Other times, he feels the obligation to his subscribers to upload a video that they declare brightens their day, puts a smile on their face in the comments. His own mouth quirks up at that, reading how he's so drastically changed the lives of fourteen year old boys who have an unhealthy obsession with Amnesia.

Maybe it's a slight exaggeration, a stretch of the truth. Still, it does feel good to know the hours he spends shielded from light, hidden away from the outside world in his darkened bedroom contributes in some small, insignificant way. _Yes, _he's had to sigh as he writes an explanation to the viewers who demand to know why he wastes his life on the Internet, _I do know the dangers of a lack of Vitamin D, I think I'll be okay. _He can go overboard, however, and his replies are too sarcastic, too mocking for a few people. It does provoke what can only be described as a 'shitstorm' in the comment section, two dividing sides becoming apparent: those who defend Cry, and those who oppose him.

He finds he has to remind himself, from time to time, that people will be people, no matter wherever you go- and one hate comment stating Cry should 'go kill himself because he's a waste of space', or whatever- does not overrule the majority of people who like him for who he is.

It can be hard not to get detached from reality and be absorbed into the virtual world, because honestly?- honestly Cry prefers the latter.

Cry's hunched over his glowing laptop screen, tapping furiously at the keys as he types out a formal apology to his subscribers saying he'll be away for a week or two, and clicks 'create post'. Within minutes it's hovering around a hundred notes, and he gets flooded with inbox messages from anonymous people demanding to know the reason. For a minute, he's tempted to compose another length-y public note, explaining- but this is the Internet, not 'Cry's sob story imposed onto unwilling Tumblr users who happen to follow him'. It'll never be reality TV, where he may get the chance to spell out his sob story to a sympathetic audience. Cry knows the deal- he lists every personal detail he ever has, he risks the more than likely possibility of danger.

His reply to every messages remains unchanging: _I'm going on a holiday. Figure it was about time I went out into the sunlight. _But people are insistent, and intrusive, so it doesn't slow the flow of messages- rather, prompts questions too nosey for his liking. Cry's getting exasperated with it, so he cuts it short by logging off. His mind's throbbing, from lack of sleep- four in the morning and he's still up, browsing for anything that will serve as a distraction from the headache. It's not severe, only minor- nothing compared to the hour long migraines he can get- he'll get through this one.

A video lies in a computer folder, a reminder to Cry he needs to get editing, still has ten minutes worth of work left to do. But he's so, _so _tired and needs a good rest he hasn't been getting for the past few days. It can wait, he decides, closing down programmes and is about to shut down when he sees a Skype message lingering.

He clicks on it, and it opens up, uncovering it's from Felix- better known as 'Pewdiepie' to the 17 million who adore him. Sometimes their devotion to him can get a little sickening. He's never been to Vidcon- refusing to show his face and revealing his identity and all that- but he's certainly seen the videos, swarms of people shrieking, high pitched female voices waving handmade banners in a bid to get Felix's attention.

How they throw themselves at him, are so desperate for him to notice them, makes Cry scoff. Pewds is just a person like them, another ordinary guy who happens to have become the most subscribed Youtuber on the Internet. Luckily all the fame hasn't gone to his head, it hasn't swollen and he's still the same odd, quirky guy with a grin on his face as he introduces himself in his videos. They're a little too weird for Cry's liking, can veer off the point where Felix can get distracted through entertaining people, but he's hardly one to criticise.

'_hey cry,_' the message reads (just as Cry refers to him as 'Pewds', Pewds refers to him as Cry. It's something special they share), '_im coming to florida for 3 weks, wanted to know if u wanted to met up?_' Cry snorts. Pewds' spelling is atrocious; Swedish or not, it's hardly an excuse. '_let me know if u do, love pewdie xoxoxoxo'. _Of course it would end ridiculously, the kisses and hugs he sends are hardly sincere. Cry's no Marzia; he can't steal Pewds' heart. Real shame.

Pewdie's message sparks something inside of him: mixed emotions, battling whether he should go to meet a friend he's known for a couple of years know, skyped even, or refuse his invitation and stay cooped up in his house, as usual. The Swede's message _does _interrupt with his plans- how so very unfortunate- plans to go visit his sister, who lives in the sunny state of California. Then again, the two states do compete when it comes to good weather. But, a side of him points out; he can see his sister any time he likes and that dickhead husband of hers. This is an opportunity he may never get again, an opportunity to meet Felix. Is it not all he's ever wanted? _No, _his insecurities scream at him, _don't do it. _It means showing his face, and that's something he's managed to keep concealed all these years. He should be proud of himself really, it's an achievement worth boasting of. Besides, what would he say to Pewds? How would he react? Cry knows he's not good enough, doesn't fit society's almost impossible ideals when it comes to looking good.

It's not _like _Felix, who doesn't need to worry about his looks, just needs to crack a confusing joke in that cute accent of his, grin at the camera and he's got the female viewers sold. After all this time, such suspense and speculation about his real face has been built up, he could never hope to reach expectations, say he _did _show his face. Thoughts are a tangled mess in his head, as he tries to untangle them, make sense of it all.

He doesn't realise he's been gnawing at his lip until there's a stinging pain, the tangy taste of salt filling his mouth. _Shit. _He's bleeding.

Cry is about to scramble out of his seat, search for a plaster he can use to cover the shallow wound- it's a habit- until the light bulb hovering over his head flicks on and he remembers you don't put _plasters _over your lip. _Fucking idiot. _So he resigns to licking away the blood, tongue exploring the grooves his front teeth have left. Saliva substituting as antiseptic, Cry hopes the bullshit article he once read about saliva being self-healing is true. He's sure as hell not going near his mouth with a bottle of outdated TPC.

And that's the whole truth, the only truth and nothing but the truth.


	2. Florida

**First **thing he does that night is sleep. His eyelids are drooping over, peering through half-lidded eyes proves to be a challenge as his focus is blurry, exhaustion taking a hold on him. Leaving Pewdie's skype message for the morning, Cry heads to bed with the promise of a good sleep. After such sleepless nights, the thought sounds enticing. He ditches the load of work that should have been done several days ago, now banished to the back of his mind. Work can wait.

He drifts to sleep with worries circling his mind, one persistent thought in particular lingering in the back: Pewds.

Cry wakes groggily, eyes bleary as he tries to blink away the last traces of sleep. Sunlight filters through the curtains he's hung over the bedroom windows, specifically to keep light away. It never works. With light almost blinding him, Cry's forced to stumble out of bed with a very 'graceful' crash, landing on the piles of dirty washing that's been left there, untouched for years. He stands straight, coughing away dust and dirt that clings to him stubbornly, brushing it off the crumpled jeans he slept in.

"Just another fucking brilliant day," he grumbles, wincing as the curtains are opened. It's not normal for his eyes to ache from the exposure, definitely not normal to find himself shying away from sunlight. It's been a while, sue him.

Even at eleven in the morning, all that can be heard is the slap of his bare feet against the marble floor, and the familiar whirring of his laptop as he starts it up. He grabs a delectable sweet pastry from the kitchen, has him skimming his lips for any remains of sugar, humming in approval.

Again pops up Pewdie's message on his screen and he sighs heavily, debating whether or not to answer it. What harm could there come in talking to him? After all, he doesn't think Pewds will take his rejection to heart, he figures he'll be able to suffer through this heartbreak. (**A/N: **Sarcasm. See, that was meant to be a joke!)

He sees new messages, alerting him with the glow. He scrolls down, through the list of babble Pewds has left for him to read on Skype, body shaking with light laughter as he makes his way through them. He notices Pewds gets progressively irritated, but knows nothing left is serious; it's their way of banter.

'_cry'. _

'_cry answer me u faget'._

'_you better not be playing video games u lil shit'. _

'_cry i swear ill cut ur balls of if you don't reply'. _

'_ok thats it ur balls r gone bye bye cry's balls'. _

'_i hope u dont miss them'. _

'_its me or the video games'. _

'_plz choose me cry i love u xoxoxo'._

'_theyre not worth it im so much better'. _

He's shaking his head, typing out a quick message for Pewds' eyes only: '_Shame really because I really liked Ken. Guess it's a sacrifice you're going to have to make.' _

The response is immediate, signalling Pewdie is online. Of course. Why would he expect anything else? Pewdie is an extrovert, the opposite of Cry- so although he does go out, meets people and socialises, he's still the same boy Cry met all those years ago who had nothing else to do but to go on his computer. He may not live and breathe Internet like Cry does, enjoy being anonymous and allowed to rant online without the steely, criticising eyes of the judgemental; but Cry still does find they both stay up most of the night together, talking or doing what they do best: collaborations together. It's just some are better at disguising things than others.

'_what no i love ken dont take him away from me'. _

'_Then don't cut off my balls!'_

'_oops sorry guess u shud have answered sooner then'. _

'_My fingers hurt, I'm tired and it's eleven in the morning. What do you want?' _

Cry knows this issue could be resolved so easily, they could communicate in a much less exhausting form; his fingers don't need to hurt and he'll be able to understand what the Swede says, for a change. All Pewdie needs to do is say the word.

'_skype me'. _

"This is so much easier. Why didn't we think of this before?" Cry's voice comes rumbling through Pewdie's speakers, he can hear his voice echo in the dark room his friend sits in, face reflecting the glowing light projected from the screen Pewdie faces. In an odd way, Cry is relieved to see his friend hasn't changed: same high cheekbones, eyes the same shade of blue that's startling and distinguishable, faint stubble in patches along his chin. His dirty blonde hair is in a ruffled mess, strands of hair flopping into his eyes as they squint at him sleepily.

"I don't know, man," Pewdie chuckles, Cry notices his voice is scratchy and rough. He won't lie and say he doesn't like this side of sleepy Felix. With the six hour time difference between Florida and Brighton, while it may be eleven over here, it's five in the afternoon where Pewdie is- and Cry knows after an exhausting day, it can take its toll. Seeing Pewdie's half-lidded eyes and small smile, it's a clear example.

Cry tries to ignore his blacked out screen, displaying the emotionless face of the character he's created. He tries to ignore how he hides his face day after day, despite denying requests to show it. He ignores how he manages to keep an angry mob of Internet users at bay, although they're going to start baying for his blood soon.

Three years he's been doing this. Why should it change? For the few who say 'he's probably so ugly it'll crack the screen' if he shows it? No. He won't, and he never will.

During his stubborn train of thought, he gnaws on his lip. His heart is thudding, anticipating the horrible moment when Pewdie asks him about visiting Florida.

He can picture it, in his head: the hopeful look he'll give him, eyes wide and pitiful, mouth quivering to imitate the puppy dog look perfectly. Then he'll sigh, heavily, cornered and with no choice but to accept.

They fall into comfortable silence; Cry is too absorbed with editing his latest video, a co-op he did with Jund, that he barely registers the words coming out of Pewdie's mouth, until a sharp shout snaps him out of his trance.

"-What?"

"Thanks for listening, I feel so loved, Cry," Pewdie says, but Cry can see he's joking from the crinkling of the corners of his eyes and the curve of his smile. "I was _saying, _did you get my message?"

"About cutting off my balls? Yeah, thanks for that buddy." He's trying to evade the conversation he know will follow, prolong the inevitable as long as possible. He doesn't want Felix to see his face. He doesn't want his friend to take one look at him, and scarper. He wants people to only know him by his voice, not his ugly face, because he knows how judgemental they can be.

He doesn't want Felix to be like the rest and despise him because of his appearance. But all Cry can do is sit there, biting down hard on his lip so hard his eyes prick with tears and wait for Pewdie to ask him.

"No, although that might happen for all you know- no, this is about me coming to Florida. I figured it's a good chance for me to come see you?" He asks, question hanging in the air. The silence thickens, unease grows inside of Cry, twisting in the pit of his stomach.

"I-I don't know. Tickets are expensive, aren't they?" Cry hedges. There's hope sparked in Pewdie's eyes; he doesn't want to be the one that makes the spark fizzle out.

"I've already bought mine. Please?" Pewds fakes a pout, lip actually quivering- even the pretence he's upset has a physical effect on Cry, he recoils. He doesn't want to see his best friend upset, the guilt that is weighing down on his shoulders hurts.

He can't handle the pressure. "Fine," he gives in, regret already creeping into his tone. "One question."

"Anything, ask me anything." Pewds flashes him a dazzling smile, runs his hands through messy hair and flutters his eyelashes. "Anything for you, Cry."

Cry snorts at his absurdity, despite his senses screaming he can still escape from this now, Felix won't be too hurt if he backs out- he'll understand.

But there's always that small voice lingering in the back of his head that says he's a grown man, he needs to face his fears and not be such a girl.

Not surprisingly, the voice that sounds scarily similar to his father's. But he won't think about that, that is a memory banished to the depths of his memory, meant to be left and forgotten. Just like the rest of them.

"Bring real food?" He asks sheepishly, because he knows craving a takeout pizza at three in the afternoon isn't healthy.

"Don't worry about it, Cry." Comes the laugh from the other side of the screen, and honestly?- honestly that laugh steadies his nerves slightly.


	3. Felix

**A/N: **wow this chapter was bad. i'm sorry. i tried.

His hands are shaking, trying to keep the cardboard sign steady, with the name 'Pewds' scrawled hurriedly on it. He receives odd looks, but hey- he's not one to change habit. 'Felix' sounds too formal, not like a friend visiting another.

Still, a corner of Cry's mind nags at him; surely if it's just 'a casual visit', why are you nervous? _Shut up, _Cry silences it. He doesn't need this right now. His chestnut-coloured hair sticks to his forehead from a sheen of sweat glistening, and he has to push it back, fingers trembling. Even his hands are clammy. His nose scrunches in disgust, trying to wipe away any signs of anxiety on his trouser legs, or swallow away fears that bubble up in his throat, beg to be released.

Overhead a female voice informs the plane flying from Gothenburg, Sweden, will be landing in under five minutes. So he has no choice but to stand there, amongst the long line of many waiting for relatives or loved ones, friends and family, he guesses. They've all got beaming smiles on his faces, chattering in excitement- he feels like the odd one out.

Cry thanks that they're all too preoccupied in their own business to stare at him, make him feel worse than he already does. It's only the thought that this will _all be worth it _that keeps him there, glued to his patch of airport floor, eyes on the screen niggled with green writing and readings above.

First thing Cry realises is how _tall _Pewds turns out to be. He sees his face on an almost daily basis, hears his thick Swedish accent and laugh echo through his speakers- but seeing him outside of a screen and into his life seems surreal.

He spots him, dragging along a cumbersome suitcase, veins appearing in his arm due to the strain, one of the first off the plane. He observes Felix's interaction with the air hostess, his unfaltering grin and hear her high-pitched giggle. It sparks off irritation inside of him, he's not sure why.

Cry doesn't really know what to do, so he awkwardly stands at the sideline, waiting for Pewds to come to him, hands clasped to the sign so the edges crumple from his tight grip.

It's hard to pretend like he's only just noticed Felix when he hears his questioning call of, "Cry?", but he does, snaps his head in Pewds' direction and forces a smile onto his unwilling face. "Hey buddy," the laugh is strained, but it certainly eases some of the tension. Pewdie's shoulders slump, Cry lets his body relax a little. His voice sounds husky, too husky and sleepy, so he tries to clear it.

"That's you? You better not be fucking with me, man." He offers out a hand and Cry shakes it, the warmth of his friend's palm spreading through his body, little tingles.

"I swear I'm not a serial killer or a potential psychopath," he jokes, and already things are beginning to feel like normal conversations he has with Pewds. The discomfort that tightened his body until the point where it was painful, leaves his body in a _whoosh. _

"That's good, 'cause the last thing I would want was to be brutally murdered with a pitchfork- not that I have one...or anything..." Felix's eyes dart around, voice purposely suspicious, but his smile remains undeterred, a big giveaway.

"Good to know." He's got a smile on his face that could melt butter; Cry certainly feels like he's melting, won over already. "Want to go? My apartment's a few miles away, and I foresee jetlag in the future."

"Spiffing, old chum," Felix loops his arm around Cry's, and if he didn't know better, he'd swear blood rushes to his cheeks.

"Your suitcase," Cry reminds him, after they've walked a few feet, and Pewdie slips his arm away with a cry of, "No! Not my suitcase!" Bolting after his prized possession, he certainly gets a few stares. But comes bounding back, able to ignore the judging looks he receives- a quality of Felix's Cry will admit he envies. Being able to not care about other people's opinions, and focusing on what's important.

Maybe one day he can do that.

* * *

Conversation in the car is polite, quiet. Cry drums his fingers against his steering wheel, to match the rhythm of his heartbeat in his head. He stares at the flickering red traffic light, wills it to flick to green, so he can drive the car forward, slam his foot down against the accelerator and watch the scenery outside whiz past him in a blur. But a pretty blur.

He even accepts Felix's request to record a few co-op videos together, he realises it's been a while since they've done one. But with all the attention he and Pewds get from the fans, and how much of a frenzy they can get into, if there's even a _mention _of a Pewdiecry collab, Cry is careful. With all the tiptoeing around, he misses it. Misses collaborations with Pewds, misses his incoherent gabble and strong Swedish accent. It's probably why he agrees to it.

Near the end of the journey they fall into comfortable silence, Cry keeping his eyes on the road ahead of him, listening to the soothing sound of Pewds' humming and the buzzing radio they'd turned down a long time ago.

* * *

Cry doesn't realise how much of a clutter his apartment is until it's too late. He has to fight his way past the door firmly wedged into the thick carpet, scrunched pieces of paper scattered, ideas he's written down in a hurry, sloppy handwriting that he can barely read himself; crumpled dirty clothes that he catches from the corner of his eye; clusters of dirt gathering in the edges that he's never really noticed before.

Cry has become so accustomed to darkness, so comfortable and in ease with it, that it takes Pewds to ask him politely to switch the light on. He does, flicking it on with a wince, the harsh light causing him to blink rapidly.

"Kind of a night animal, huh?" Pewds jokes.

Cry has to snap himself out of a trance he's somehow fallen into, let Felix's words filter through and process them. Slowly. "Yeah, kind of nocturnal," he admits, a little sheepish. "And a recluse," he mutters, but quiet enough to not be picked up by the oblivious Swede beside him.

Pewds is already wandering, exploring every nook and cranny of his apartment. It's kind of cute, Felix reminding him of an inquisitive puppy bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyes bright with exuberance. His nose is scrunched up too, poking his head into rooms even Cry doesn't go into anymore.

"This my room?" He asks, signalling at the door to the left of the corridor leading to his bedroom. Cry nods, with a small smile on his face. He can't force it off his face; he's not going to try. Because since the little bit of awkwardness and tentativeness that's always been there has edged away just the slightest for him to be able to smile. His mouth aches from the effort, he hasn't really grinned like a madman in the way he is now.

Pewds just has that effect on him. Already, the weeks ahead of Cry are looking brighter, he's feeling more optimistic than before.

"I like it," comes a call from behind the door, then a loud-particularly painful- crash. What follows is a curseword in Swedish, Cry repressing a snicker and Pewds popping his head around the door, looking bruised and flustered.

"Problem, Pewds?"

"None at all." His friend huffs a strand of blonde hair out of his face, grinning. There's a sparkle in his eye that makes Cry fidget, shift from foot to foot nervously. It can't be good.

"O-okay, good," he stutters, and he's not sure why. Colour floods his cheeks, and he lets his hair fall into his eyes as he diverts his gaze to the ground. "It's getting late, so...I'm gonna go to my room. Edit some stuff."

"Okay, sure," he hears Pewds say, although it's only six in the evening. "See you later?" And it sounds hopeful, so he replies with a 'sure' before rushing to his room, still trying to piece together the puzzle to what just happened.


	4. Dominoes

**A/N: **i did warn you i'm a terrible updater. anyhoo, i'm so sorry to anybody who has bothered to read this story, have this crappy chapter as a reward (i _have been busy okay_!)

**Cry's** night is restless. He tosses and turns, bed sheets clinging to his sweaty skin, legs entangled in cotton. His body feels overheated, burning, breath too hot. Mind overrun by thoughts, conscious about every slight movement he makes, every groan of his bed- wondering if the walls are thin enough for Felix to hear him. When he checks his clock and it reads four in the morning, he gives up his attempts to sleep with a heavy sigh, head flopping back onto the pillow.

The man in the mirror doesn't look like him. He has dark under-eye bags, shadows cast across high cheekbones, tips of dark hair that just reach brown eyes flecked by green and rough stubble along his jaw line. He looks too old, too weary for Cry's liking.

Not much he can do about it. _Except sleep more and don't stay up until four in the morning, _the nagging voice says at the back of his head. He scoops up cold water in his hands, splashing what feels like ice onto his face. It certainly wakes him up, eyelashes blinking away the drops.

Cry slings on a shirt that hasn't been washed in two days, by the smell of it, and baggy tracksuit bottoms. He's one teeth-brushing and hair ruffling later out of his bedroom door when he remembers he has Pewdiepie, the famous gamer staying at his home.

But more informally, his best friend.

It's the smell that hits him first. The strong, rich scent of sizzling meat and eggs. He subconsciously licks his lips, drawn to the kitchen from where it wafts from.

"Pewds?" He calls, waiting hesitantly for a response, nibbling at his lip. He tries again. "You up?"

There's a scuffle, no answer but a painful crash. Cry guesses there's been an accident, at the least. Hoping Felix hasn't severely injured himself or damaged any part of his kitchen, he rushes in, trying to look nonchalant at the same time.

"Are you okay?" He asks, with a hint of concern in his voice.

"Fine," a red-cheeked and (slightly) bruised Pewds answers. He's still wearing that lazy, dopey smile so Cry knows he's okay. It's like he never takes it off, not even for a minute. Constant happiness. Wishes he knew what that was like. "Just dropped the pan." He gestures to the spilt pan, contents spilt on the floor.

Cry would sigh if he was surprised. He's really not. Clumsiness just seems to be one of the charming attributes of Pewds' personality. It suits him. The goofy smile, how he trips over his feet instead of his words. Adorable.

There's nothing shy about Pewds, unlike Cry. He radiates extrovert.

"Want me to order Dominoes?" Cry asks, despite his Swedish friend shaking his head frantically. "It'll be quicker," he presses, sparing a glance at the floor, "and easier." It takes some persuasion, but Pewds relents, refusing to look at Cry as he dials the number.

Drama queen, is all Cry thinks. But a small part of him is glad Felix looks away. He still feels uncomfortable, insecure about his appearance- he'd prefer it if he didn't have a pair of eyes on him all of the time.

A chirpy woman's voice answers the phone, and Cry orders two margheritas, deciding the safe option is best. When he hangs up, there's an infectious grin on Felix's face which he returns, but unsure why.

"You're smiling; that's not a good thing, is it?" Cry questions, eyebrows furrowed. He's half excited, half concerned. It's a good mixture.

"No reason, no reason at all," Felix dismisses in that thick accent of his. "Only...I've been here a day and I'm surprised you haven't brought it up yet."

Like a light bulb flicking on in his head, he's suddenly enlightened. "You want to do a co-op together?" A smile sneaks onto his face; he can't help himself. It reminds him of the good old times, something he has missed. Like an empty ache he's ignored.

"You don't?" Felix gasps, hand clutched to chest. _Drama queen. _"Cry, I'm hurt. I thought we _had something._"

Cry wants to play along, but the doorbell rings, interrupting. "I'll get it, _don't mind me buddy_."

"Great!" Comes Pewds' cheery shout. Rude.

He barely gives a passing glance to the pizza delivery girl; it's not something he pays much attention to. They're just another face to him, just a pair of unidentified hands that passes him the pizza box. Just another chirpy voice, that announces "it'll be $10."

Cry doesn't look up until he hears her voice flirtily say, "not a regular customer, are you?" And see the predatory look on her face; the glint in her eyes and the shine of her red lipstick. How her tongue flicks out when she says it, leans her chest a little more towards him- it makes him want to laugh, it's ridiculous and a pathetic attempt.

He wants to explain to her he's not interested, he just wants his pizza- but with a girl like her, he guesses she won't listen. She looks like the kind he wouldn't go near; with hair bleached blonde to the dry roots, eyelashes spidery, face heavy with makeup. She looks like the kind he swears off for good, so superficial it makes him wince.

Another dart of the tongue. "So?" She prompts.

He laughs, but it's forced. "No, I- I don't order often." Cry's patting his back pocket, desperately searching for his wallet, panic rising when he realises it's missing. He'd rather just pay and shut the door, end this now. Already the conversation verges on the uncomfortable, and Cry's natural instinct is to shy away.

Her analysing stare doesn't make matters better. It rakes over his face, over his body. He feels too vulnerable, too exposed. Again.

When Cry tries to speak it comes out as an embarrassing croak, and he has to clear his throat awkwardly. He's sweating, and the girl raises an arched eyebrow at him, fumbling for the money. "S-sorry, j-just trying to find- um- the-the money," he stammers his way through a sentence.

But then he hears footsteps, feels the warm but heavy weight of an arm slung around his shoulder, and relaxes just enough to let out a sigh.

"I've got this, Cry," the familiar voice says. He can hear the smile in it, bites back a grin. Now isn't the time to smile a shiteating grin, like he wants to. He doesn't turn his head to see Felix sift through the notes, pull one out at random and hand it to the girl.

"Thanks," but her voice is too sarcastic, too overdone. Felix's thumb is rubbing reassuring circles into his shoulder bone, a soothing gesture. "Here's the pizza." Unprofessional in the way she shoves it into Pewds' arms, stomps off with a sulk on her face.

Cry expects Pewds to be glowering back, lips pursed- but he's got a disbelieving look on his face, eyebrows raised but laughing silently. There's the smallest hint of wrinkles, laughter lines as creases around his blue eyes.

"Women," Felix sighs, wiping a tear from his eye, arm falling from Cry's shoulder. "Honestly."

"See her face? Wow." Cry jokes, but his shoulder tingles from his friend's touch, the gap where his arm was very noticeable.

"Is it always like this in America?" But Felix is joking. It's like he can never stop with that grin, Cry notes. It's this or his drama queen expression. He prefers the first.

"Only in Florida. You'll get used to it, man."

The margherita is good, hard crust and gooey cheese that melts on his tongue. Cry hums appreciatively, licking every last taste of the stringy ham off his fingers. He spares Pewds a look, to see his plate empty, spare a few crumbs and a guilty-looking Felix.

"Sorry. I kind of...Yeah, this happened." He looks so sheepish, so like a little kid that's been caught sneaking chocolate from the sweet cupboard, that Cry wants to laugh. But when it quickly switches to big dopey eyes, a wobbling mouth, it's really not fair. Cry's not sure how a twenty-five year old man manages to perfect the puppy-dog 'pity me' look, but if it has to be anyone, it's Felix.

After a minute of two of just staring at his pitiful face, Cry gives in. "_Fine, _Jesus, man. But you're not having my pizza, that's for fucking sure."

They don't end up filming a co-op together. Cry stashes it away in his memory, saves it for later. They end up with Cry handing his pizza over with a face that says it all; 'margherita, I'll miss you'. He ends up swearing he'll never share food with a man with a stomach bigger than his fanbase, to which Felix gives him his best dazzling smile.

Yeah, that's one promise he'll definitely break by the end of this stay.


End file.
